


Just Shy of a Gun

by helo572



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8001352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hanzo!” Winston's voice, all of a sudden, like static in his ears. Hanzo takes another breath, deeper this time to orientate himself. The air catches in his throat. “Hanzo, you've been hit! Single bullet wound, multiple punctures, exit wound. I'm reading an inferior vena cava rupture and damage to...” His voice trickles into white noise, ringing in Hanzo's ears. </p><p>“Oh,” he whispers to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Shy of a Gun

**Author's Note:**

> I got prompted McCree/Hanzo, hurt!Hanzo and Talon. This was one was a blast to write, thank you :)

Hanzo's fingers drum lightly against the nooked arrow; _onetwothree_ , _onetwothree_ , _onetwothree_. He lets out a short breath. A tickle of cold dances up his exposed side, and he shakes it as he rolls his shoulder.

 

The street below him is unwelcoming. Streetlights dot the pavement, illuminating the road like splatters of torchlight. A man strolls underneath one, his red serape lighting up as the only suggestion of warmth. His hands are in his pockets and his head is dipped forward, obscuring his face underneath the hat atop his unruly tangle of hair. A few brown curls peak out against the nape of his neck, a warm complement to the red serape hanging around his shoulders.

 

“I see you, McCree,” Hanzo mumbles into the comm.

 

“Aw, don't I feel just like I got myself my own guardian angel,” the cowboy drawls in return. He keeps walking, head bowed.

 

Rolling his eyes, Hanzo scans the street again. It is empty still, save McCree. He hears the cowboy whistle something out of tune.

 

The archer's vantage is a rooftop, which forms an unforgivable truss save the old-fashioned air conditioning unit he is braced against. He has full view of the area below, plus their mark, an abandoned omnic processing plant. McCree careens towards it, tune sailing across the stillness of the street.

 

Satellite data had suggested Talon activity: suspicious persons and deliveries increasing in occurrence over the past week and a half.

 

There's a _hmph_ over the comm line. “Activity is clear on our end.” Winston pauses, McCree's tune stops, the last note hanging in the air. “Agent Hanzo?” Hanzo imagines the ape readjusting his glasses against his nose.

 

“We are clear.”

 

“Acknowledged. Agents McCree, Lúcio, you are green to enter the premises. Remember, keep your heads down low, recon only.”

 

“I hear ya, big guy,” returns the kid over the line. He is entering from the rear, scaling the large wall separating the property from the next block.

 

“Got it.” McCree huffs, “At least the front door ain't hard to miss.”

 

The gunslinger looks both ways, crosses the street. Pauses at the gate ajar to the building, then ducks inside, hands still in his pockets. He slips between two broken panels of a roller door like he belongs there, eaten by the foreboding atmosphere of the plant.

 

Hanzo turns his attention back to the street, now empty. A streetlight at the corner flickers. A breeze stirs from the west. He lets out a sigh, checks his nooked arrow, scans the street again.

 

Eventually, the comm crackles to life at the agreed five minute check in intervals. “Looks like your typical creepy old building, boss,” Lúcio reports, his voice cheery. “Ya gotta be with me on this one, Eastwood, it's like some real old-fashioned zombie movie shit. Feel?”

 

McCree entertains him, “Like that grainy old _Walkin' Dead_ garbage Reinhardt binges? Yeah.” There's a pause, then he clears his throat. “Uh, nothin' we could put in our books, but. Just a whole load o' scrapped omnics. Dark as anythin', too. Flashlights ain't doing it much justice, don't think.”

 

Fifteen minutes pass, another two check-ins. More banter. The street remains silent under Hanzo's watchful gaze. Again, the western breeze stirs Hanzo's ponytail, disturbing the ribbon tied at his back. Frowning, he readjusts himself in his perch, which is when he sees it. A block over there's an open widow, the curtains have been ripped away, and instead, a glint where something catches the weak streetlight.

 

His eyes only widen a fraction before he draws back, releasing the nooked arrow. His assailant immediately responds in kind: the _crack_ of a gun pierces the silence enveloping the barren street. Hanzo ducks behind the box for cover, drawing another arrow from his quiver.

 

McCree's worried voice crackles in his ear, “Hanzo, what's goin' on out there?!”

 

“A sniper.” His mouth forms the words strangely, heavy on his tongue. “Talon has sent someone to monitor their investment.”

 

“Can't blame 'em,” huffs McCree. “Lúcio! Kid, high-tail it outta here. Group with me at the front door, we'll barrel out together.”

 

“Hanzo!” Winston's voice, all of a sudden, like static in his ears. Hanzo takes another breath, deeper this time to orientate himself. The air catches in his throat. “Hanzo, you've been hit! Single bullet wound, multiple punctures, exit wound. I'm reading an inferior vena cava rupture and damage to...” His voice trickles into white noise, ringing in Hanzo's ears.

 

“Oh,” he whispers to himself.

 

A blood stain spreads from the right of his _hakama_ , catching his attention as it dribbles down his leg. Staring, he touches a hand to the widening mark, the other loosely grasping at his bow. It is otherwise unresponsive when he presses down to stem the blood gurgling from the hole in his stomach. Instead, his whole world explodes into pain; a hammer against his skull, flares of agony streaking up his chest. His throat constricts, air rushes from his lungs.

 

Then, the rooftop tilts before him, and suddenly he is tumbling down, down, head first over the truss. He strikes the roof hard. Rolls once, twice, then his stomach drops. When he blinks again, the pavement swims into his vision, as well the spurred boots running towards him.

 

“Oh god,” somebody whispers. “Oh _god,_ oh fuck. No, no. No. Hanzo. _Han-zo_.” A gentle hand on his shoulder, the pavement turns into the black sky, Jesse McCree's face hovers into view. His curls are still trying to escape from underneath his hat, and he still hasn't trimmed that ridiculous beard. He's beautiful.

 

“Yeah, okay. _Okay._ ” someone else says, like a mantra. “Press there, Eastwood, just. There. Yeah. Gotta stop this bleeding. _Shit_ , that's a lot of blood. Shit. Alright. Okay.” Then, singsong, “Keep it to- _geth-er_ Lúcio...” Their words fade in and out, but they keep on babbling, “Radio... yeah. Radio Winston. Gotta get outta here. Gimmie some radiooo...”

 

A hand settles against Hanzo's head, a thumb stroking hesitantly across his temple. Jesse's lips start moving, “Darlin', you're gon' be just fine, you hear me. Hanzo. We got you. Promise, sweetheart.” Hanzo stares, mesmerised.

 

“Five mins out, okay. Okay. Yeah, fam, five mins. We can do five minutes.”

 

It fades out again, this time encouraged by a comforting hum of music, settling over the dead street like a gentle blanket. Hanzo sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Pain claws Hanzo back from unconsciousness, jarring his side into streaks of agony. He groans, somebody shushes him quietly, brushes a reassuringly hand across his arm.

 

“Hey, Shimada. You with us? Just hold still, man, gotcha on the shuttle. We're headin' back to base, you're gonna be just fine.”

 

Heavy footsteps hammer against Hanzo's skull, plus a sense of urgency. “He awake? Hanzo?” Another hand brushes him, tenderly this time, a touch against his cheek. Hushly, “Hey. Open up those big brown eyes for me, darlin', c'mon. I wanna see you.”

 

There's a stretch of pause, Hanzo breathes, the touch against his cheek lingers, cupping his face. Someone sighs. “He's gonna be in and out for a while, McCree. Big smack on the head, ain't helping he's got a hole in his gut.”

 

It all comes rushing back suddenly: the mission, the old omnic plant, the sniper. They shot him, he's supposed to be covering the others, the whole street is open to their scope. Panicked, his eyes fly open, he grasps to find purchase; to get moving, to warn them. Above him, Jesse McCree and Lúcio startle, their faces swimming out of focus.

 

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Lúcio soothes, strong hands suddenly hold him still, yet his fingers are gentle against his aching body. “Shimada. _Hanzo._ Calm down, you're fine, you're okay–”

 

“ _Sniper_ –” he grounds out, the words clawing at his chest.

 

McCree finishes, breathless, “is all taken care of, sweetheart, don't you fret. You just lay nice an' still.” Agony stirs at his side, he screws his eyes shut. McCree's voice breaks a little, “Hanzo. Please, you're hurt, sweetheart, you need'a–”

 

“ _Hanzo_ , you've been shot.” Lúcio's usually bubbly voice is suddenly stern, sharp. Hanzo drags in another shaky breath, holds it. “You need to lie still right about now, you're not doing yourself any favors.” Lets it out slowly, his side flares in pain, he bites back a moan. “Yeah, there you go, fam. Alright.” The medic gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, speaks softly, “Me, McCree, we're fine. Winston too, he's heading us home. Your sniper is dust.”

 

He only notices the hand gripping his own tightly when it disappears, McCree brushing hair back from his eyes instead.

 

“I gotcha, Hanzo. I got this,” Lúcio goes on. “'Bout a half hour from the Watchpoint, so you rest, there's no reason to hang here with us. I'll fix you something up for the pain, hang in there a sec, my man.”

 

Hanzo blinks, long and slow. He breathes. Chases away the agony as he settles his eyes onto McCree, who swallows thickly. He offers Hanzo a wet smile. “Kid knows his stuff,” he says, then laughs shakily. “God. Gonna give a guy a heart attack, lookin' at him all heavy lidded like that. Just ride it out, sweetheart. Don't try to fight it.”

 

Again, the gunslinger's fingers brush across his face, sweeping the corner of his eye. Hanzo closes them with a sigh, swallows back a wave of pain.

 

“That's it,” he breathes, his voice low, soothing, “I'm right here. You're gonna be just fine, cross my heart.”

 

* * *

 

Sunrise enters at the broad window at the head of the room, lighting up the gloomy interior of the Gibraltor Watchpoint from the stretch of night. Hanzo turns his head away, grimacing, settles back into the pillow, is roused again by eyes heavy on the back of his head.

 

“Shimada-san?” Turning again, he sees Dr. Ziegler seated at her desk, head lifted from paperwork. There are dark circles under her eyes. “ _Guten Morgen_.”

 

“Watchpoint..?” He winces at the roughness of his voice, the sudden heaviness in his head.

 

“Yes. You arrived earlier tonight. I treated you, you've been resting for almost five hours.”

 

A flash of green. Hanzo swallows. “You treated me?”

 

Angela looks back at her paperwork, eyes wandering the desk. “Yes... my clipboard. Where is it?” Hanzo turns to stare at the ceiling. The doctor appears at the foot of the bed. She is a fairly small woman, especially in contrast to the other guard, but here in her own medbay, scruntinzed under Hanzo's gaze, she is the smallest he has ever seen her. Her eyes scan whatever is on the clipboard, then she glances at him. “You would like details..?”

 

Shortly, “Yes.”

 

She nods. “Minor vein rupture, the inferior vena cava, the bullet narrowly missed your spine. Entry and exit wounds, some tissue damage. Moderate concussion, two broken ribs and a fractured wrist from the fall.” She flips the page on her clipboard. She still has not looked him in the eye. “Scrapes and bruises.”

 

Hanzo sits placid, takes it all in. Takes a breath. It is what he expected. “My bow.”

 

Mercy blinks, inclines her head. “Sorry?”

 

“Where is my bow.”

 

“Oh.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “McCree recovered it prior to extraction. Not to worry. I am more concerned about your medical records, actually, there is little to go off. Had we required a transfusion...” She is still looking at the clipboard.

 

“No doubt the Shimada-gumi destroyed them when I was ordered to be killed.”

 

Here she does meet his eyes, her own wide. “Ah.” She looks down, starts scribbling. Mumbles something to herself in German. “Then we ought to begin our own records. I need to be able to treat you safely, Hanzo.” The way she says it is supposed to be comforting, but her lips are pursed, shoulders tense. She is nervous.

 

He takes inventory of himself in this moment: sore, bandaged chest, dull throb at the base of his skull, the brace hugging his left wrist, the tiredness tugging at his lids. He is worn, tired, yet alive.

 

He clears his throat. She is still looking at her clipboard, lips moving soundlessly. The angle of light from the sunrise out medbay window frames her face together with her golden hair. “Thank you, Doctor Ziegler,” he says.

 

Like a sigh, tensions escapes Angela and her frame. Her face visibly softens as she looks him up and down, an almost sad smile on her face. “It is my work, Hanzo. No thanks is required.”

 

He gives her a nod, she returns it, and saunters back towards her desk. He settles back into the pillows, she into her work, the silence serene between them.

 

* * *

 

A feather-touch starts Hanzo awake, brushing across the palm of his open hand.

 

“Hey,” McCree croons in a whisper.

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo grunts.

 

“Snuck in here, don't tell Angela. Everybody's at breakfast. Not 'posed to disturb you.” His fingers grasp Hanzo's own, a startling rough touch against the lull of the rest of his body. “How you doing?”

 

Hanzo frowns, curling his fingers around McCree's. Despite the coarseness of his fingers, aged with gunpowder and flint, the grip is comforting. “Fuzzy.”

 

“Yeah, the guard's got some hella pain killers, huh?” McCree chuckles, strokes a thumb lazily across the back of Hanzo's hand. “Scared me real shitless, you did, though. Please, don't you ever go doin' that again.” Here, he brushes his lips against the knuckles of Hanzo's hand, still clasped in his own. “Can't handle it, darlin'. Seein' you just... layin' there. Starin' up at the sky, lookin' right through me.”

 

“Yes.” Meekly, he turns his head towards McCree. The gunslinger is sitting beside him, bare without his hat and serape. The sunlight highlights the strands of deep red hair in his brown beard. His eyes are heavy, yet they brighten at Hanzo's half-lidded gaze. “I do not want this again.”

 

McCree makes a noise of amusement, his lips turning up in a hint of a smile. “Fair call, darlin',” he says. “For both our sakes.”

 

The silence erodes comfortably; McCree, tenderly stroking Hanzo's hand with his thumb, Hanzo, soaking up the worry in Jesse's eyes. Again, the cowboy presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles, meets the archer's eyes as he does so. He pulls away, murmuring, “God, just wanted to see those pretty brown eyes. Been layin' awake all night thinkin' about 'em.”

 

The confession is oddly touching, coercing a smile to Hanzo's face. “I am alright, Jesse,” he assures.

 

“I know, sweetheart.” He entwines their fingers at Hanzo's side, a gentle smile on his face. “Just makin' sure.”

 

* * *

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

A week later, Jesse McCree looks startled at the words, Peacekeeper frozen in his hand mid-reload. Hanzo doesn't look away, even when McCree blinks. “Huh?”

 

“I am apologising.”

 

“Huh, yeah, I heard that. What you apologising _for_ , exactly?” He sets down his gun, turns around, plants his elbows on the ammo cradle, leans back. The training simulation is forgotten.

 

“The mission. My goal was to ensure your safety. The sniper–”

 

McCree straightens, looking like Hanzo's just slapped him clean across the face. He cuts in, “Don't you dare, Shimada. Ain't nothing you could'a done 'bout that. Getting _shot_ however, that's the last thing you gotta be apologising for. Ever.”

 

“Regardless, I left you and Lúcio open to fire. There could have been additional injuries.”

 

“Well, there wasn't. So stop your god darn apologies, Hanzo, I don't want 'em. You don't owe anybody anythin'. 'Specially me. Would pull your ass outta the fire a thousand times, no payment required.”

 

Here, Hanzo drinks Jesse McCree in; red serape, unruly curls, so much love in his eyes Hanzo's stomach lurches. “I...” he starts; finishes. Wasn't sure where he was going. Still isn't.

 

Suddenly, McCree is there, a hand on Hanzo's cheek, cupping his face in his hand. He smells like cigar smoke and ash, like heaven. He lifts Hanzo's chin with his thumb, leans down, presses his lips softly to his. Pulls away smiling.

 

“Ain't nothing you could ever do, Hanzo, to make me run away from you. You're stuck with me, fire or no fire. You hear me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

McCree exhales, content. “Good.” There's an interlude; Hanzo looks away, McCree scratches his forehead with his thumb. He takes one breath, looks Hanzo up and down. He sighs, “Aw, hell.” He moves in close, takes Hanzo's face in his hands, pulls him in for a deep, long kiss.

 

He's still not sure where this journey is taking him, but Hanzo knows currently that it's exactly where he wants to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come visit me on [tumblr](http://talizorahs.tumblr.com)!


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